


Collections

by SnowSetAfire



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Shadowrun
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 09:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16281902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowSetAfire/pseuds/SnowSetAfire
Summary: For Reddit OCtober 2018 prompt, "Fandom"Lyra Andromeda "Squibs" Malfoy  ponders her interests while purchasing dinner.I swear up and down I'm going to make a fuller crossover fic once I finish my current work.  This puppy's been gestating way too long.





	Collections

Wizards, thought Squibs, were fond of collections. The Weasley-Graingers loved their muggle paraphernalia. Her ancestors were overly fond of things relating to the dark arts. The Scamanders had enough pets that between them and Hagrid, they could open a zoo.

Squibs collected insults.

She was thinking about it as she waved past brightly colored Augmented Reality screens in a London Taco Temple. It had been a while since the last run. There wasn’t much nuyen left for a real meal, but if she split up a nutrisoy quesadilla (“With REAL cheese product!” the AR jaguar mascot proclaimed, “Only 2 Nuyen! Sacrifice your tongue on the Altar of Taste! TODAY!”) maybe should get by until her meet with Norberta tomorrow to debrief on another job. Hopefully Norberta would give a cash advance.

The first insult, Squibs thought, came when she was ten. No, the first came when she was born. There was no son to carry on the Malfoy name. Then the fears trickled in over a decade until at last the dam burst, and there was no letter from Hogwarts in the mail. It didn’t matter that her skills on a broom were already preternaturally good, or that she could out-race and out-wrestle any of the Potters and Grainger-Weasleys when they met. It didn’t matter that for the rest of the world, she wasn’t mundane but an adept and magic flowed through her veins. To Wizardkind, she was a squib.

A push of a button. A hot, foil-wrapped imitation of food, crafted from soy and krill was released from its chamber. Squibs slipped the package into a pocket of her trenchcoat. Two nuyen disappeared from her account, no coins or bills being exchanged. The wonders of the Sixth World. Being born a squib in a Pureblood family was hardly even bad compared to what being born without a SIN meant. You could fit all the wizards in the UK, even the refugees from when Ireland turned into the elvish Tir na nOg, in the Scottish Habitable Zone with room to spare. The Scottish Habitable Zone, territory of the Ministry of Magic. What a sad thing it was, that thin strip of land containing Hogwarts at its center, the sea to the east and west, impenetrable wilderness to the north and the rest of civilized Britain to the south. How many wizards, to the almost sixty million muggles in the UK? Having no identity among wizards was nothing compared to having no identity among those sixty million humans, elves, orks, dwarves, and trolls.

So what does a lost little girl do?

She collects insults. She brandishes shame like a weapon against the world. She wears the slur whispered by both half- and Pureblooded wizards loudly. Hello, I’m Squibs Malfoy. Nice to meet you. She sticks out her hand. They cringe.

She collects insults. Squibs had dozens she could count on to start a fight when her fists got itchy. When she ran out of words that stung in English, she could count on a smattering in Sperethiel or Or’zet. Even if only elves and orks tended to understand those, it was the thought that counted.

She collected lovers too, Squibs thought as she stepped into the chokingly dirty, cold spring air of a London night. Lovers that were insults. She had a lewd diary of the people who walked the same streets as she did and fell into the same bed, if only for a night. She had couples’ pictures and letters she sent to her dearest great-grandfather every holiday and birthday, knowing how much he hated seeing Squibs in the arms of the latest ork go-ganger or half-blood wizard who chose to pursue magical studies at Oxford rather than Hogwarts. Grandfather didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he was stoic, or it was a relief for him when Squibs wasn’t involved with “Albus’ child”.

Shadowrunning was an insult as well, Squibs considered as she made her way back to her tiny squat of a flat. Not anything respectable like being an Auror, or a person of leisure, or even a corporate wage slave. Squibs couldn’t talk about what she did for a living, even if she had words to describe it to her family. Knuts weren’t nuyen, and only one of them would pay Squibs’ bills. Only one of them soothed her itch for adrenaline, as a SIN-less adept of a squib. Squibs couldn’t wait to see Norberta tomorrow. Of all insults, shadowrunning was the one she loved best.


End file.
